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In the recesses of his mind he knew there’d been a time when he’d known his purpose, when he’d been doing something that he’d enjoyed and had meaning to people who were important to him, that had depended on him. No, maybe there hadn’t been a time, but there should have been.
Reality existed on a razor-thin foundation; one could reach out a hand, physically grab the air in front of them, and tear it open like rotting cloth—behind it was something either terrifying or beautiful.
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